Ache Over Orgasm: Why I’m Choosing Slow Burn

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I’ve hit 40,000 words and...No one’s been naked. No one’s been pinned to a wall. No one's been fucked, choked, or moaned against ancient stone.

And yet I am emotionally devastated.

Because I’m writing a slow burn. Not “we kissed in chapter two and had sex by chapter four but we waited so it still counts.” No, I mean aching. Yearning. Soul-level longing through prison bars.

Meanwhile, the market? It wants spice. It wants dirty talk, thrust counts, and thigh-gripping Fae who know exactly what to do with a willing mouth and a moss-covered log.

And here I am…Terrified that if I don’t give the people what they want, if I don’t slide some smut between my battle scenes, I’ll close the door to a whole readership.
That my books will be passed over for not being horny enough.

And let me be real with you...every indie author I’m friends with writes smut.
Every. Single. One.

And that’s totally fine! I’m not here to judge what anyone writes, I’ll happily book trade, share their work, display it with pride.
But read it? Nope. I won’t.

Not because I don’t support them, but because I do.
And I know myself: if I don’t connect with the story, if the style or spice level isn’t for me, I can’t unform that opinion. And I would rather protect our friendship than risk damaging it over genre or taste.
Creative friendship is sacred and I don’t want to let my inner critic speak louder than my support.

That said… sometimes I do feel like a lone villager when everyone else is counting the smut scenes and I'm like...Hi, meet my dragon and her Titan😆

The indie landscape feels saturated with spice.
You write fantasy? Great.
But where’s the swordplay and the swordplay? It feels expected.

You write romance? Cool.
But is it even valid if there isn’t at least one orgy and a surprise reverse harem?

Meanwhile I’m out here writing characters who don’t touch until it hurts. Who ache through steel bars and fall in love with bruised words and trembling hands.
Characters who are so emotionally guarded that the first kiss shatters everything.

Because that’s what I love.
That’s what I feel when I write.

And let’s be clear: I’m not afraid of intimacy. I’m afraid of empty sex scenes.

Words like slick make me gag.
Cock sounds like porn.
Dick sounds like Wattpad.
Cunt makes Americans combust.
I have a whole hitlist of words I won't even touch, let alone with a feather to make you tingle.

In Blood of the Titan, I wrote sex carefully and I had one of my friends who reads like 100 books a year amek sure it was tasteful. I stared at the screen so long trying to keep it tasteful! Because I don’t want to write sex just to sell.

I want to write stories that make people ache.
That ruin you slowly.
That build tension you can taste not because there's moaning, but because there’s meaning.

I’ve got one chapter I can’t stop rereading.
It’s aching but soothing. Hungry but fulfilling.
It’s a gloved hand brushing a cheek through bars.
It’s a soldier saying:

“I could get in trouble for this.”

“I know.” (but her mouth just moves, no sound)

“I’d do it anyway,” he added. “For you.” with confidence! 

*SWOOON*

That’s intimacy.
That’s the moment you remember.

Because one day, I want my kids to pick up this book.
And I don’t want them to scream “MUM, WHAT THE FUCK!?!?!?”

I’m not writing porn.
I’m writing legacy.

And if you’re here for the ache, for the quiet devastation, the trembling touches, the whispered lines that ruin you more than any climax ever could, then pull up a chair.

You won’t get spice, well not yet. But you will get wrecked.

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